


this love will keep us (from darkness of the mind)

by gratefulnblissful (possibilist)



Series: moon river [2]
Category: Women's Soccer RPF
Genre: F/F, again its soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-16 22:27:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29707488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/possibilist/pseuds/gratefulnblissful
Summary: 'christen smiles at you, softly, bathed in the soft light from behind, her babyhairs illuminated like a halo, a little line from your t-shirt pressed into her cheek. your heart feels so big it might burst.'or: even when they're not, all the tomorrows are gentle.
Relationships: Tobin Heath/Christen Press
Series: moon river [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2183226
Comments: 10
Kudos: 145





	this love will keep us (from darkness of the mind)

**Author's Note:**

> honestly this is just tobins pov of soft things. ultimate tbh

_i will always love you  
how i do  
let go of a prayer for you_

_—_ frank ocean, ‘godspeed’

/

when she falls asleep, gracefully, in a little ball and her eyes fluttering closed despite her best efforts, like she was trying to stay awake to look at you even though her schedule is thrown off from travel — when she falls asleep you breathe in the smell of her skin in the crook of her neck. cocoa butter, her perfume. you’re a little smooshed on the couch and your ankle hurts and your back will bother you later but she’s so warm and so soft and you love her. you missed her.

her hair is in braids, like she often travels with. the sleeve of her hoodie slips up and you trace the small scar on her elbow, from when she was seven and fell off the swing at the park by her house, she’d told you with a laugh, trying to impress a girl.

it makes you smile, even now, imagining her wild curls and how she’s always been two steps faster than everyone. her green eyes; the delight of her smile. you think of your friends and their growing families, and the quiet stability of your life: just the two of you. what you’d never dared to really dream for yourself when you first realized you were gay, when you had cried and prayed and pored over every bible verse about grace you could find — everything you had been too scared to hope for will be, one day not too far away, so, so beautiful. your life with this miracle of a woman will be louder and messier and sticky, and it will grow so beautifully.

christen starts to snore, and you sigh and rub her back. she’d fallen asleep after you’d definitely shown her how _proud_ of her you are, how _good_ she is, in a thong and a hoodie and she might still be the death of you, the way she groans a little into your chest but then sits up slowly, blinking back into the day.

she smiles at you, softly, bathed in the soft light from behind, her babyhairs illuminated like a halo, a little line from your t-shirt pressed into her cheek. your heart feels so big it might burst.

/

cooking is… not your forte, you’ll admit. but trying to do nice things for your wife is, and you had practiced making real, authentic california-inspired enchiladas five times while she was away in florida — getting the right amount of adobo; not putting too much chile powder (you’d had to throw that unfortunate batch away entirely). you had her dad send you salsa from her favorite mexican place in LA, even; gone to three grocery stores to find ripe avocados to make guacamole.

you wait until after she’s showered and napped to put out the full spread of food on the kitchen island — you’d ordered from all of her favorite restaurants too, just in case your enchiladas were bad, or she wasn’t in the mood for them.

but she says, ‘oh my _god_ ,’ softly when she sees the salsa you’d put out, and looks at you so emotionally you have to try not to laugh. she’s dramatic and delightful and she moans when she tries a bite after you sit down, leans across the table to kiss you in thanks.

/

it doesn’t take too long for you to figure out what’s wrong, and it’s unlike her — she has an app on her phone that reminds her every day — but it’s happened before. she’s shaky at practice, and you’re always distracted and preoccupied watching her, especially because all you can do right now is limp around in your stupid boot, but you can see her hands tremble from a mile away, it seems.

when she comes over to get water she has a crease between her brows and you touch her elbow lightly, pull her to the side a little.

‘did you take your meds this morning?’

she pauses for a second and then says a regretful but relieved, ‘no, i must have forgotten.’

‘that’s okay.’ you limp away to rummage around in your bag and she follows. you forget like ninety percent of any meetings or anything anyone tells you but christen is the best part of your world; you’ve been carrying around an emergency supply of her anti-depressants since before you even started dating, when she’d told you late at night during an anxiety attack when you were roommates.

you get the small pill out of the little bottle you keep and put it in her palm with a quirk of a smile. she’s so good at big gestures and organized love — the kind that helps you do _everything_ , that makes your life run smoothly amid all its chaos — but you’re good at taking care of her too. you pay attention; you always try.

‘thank you, tobin,’ she says, after she swallows the pill with some water and wipes her brow. she’s sincere, reaches down to squeeze your hand.

‘of course,’ you say, like it’s not a big deal, but she looks at you like it is. maybe so, but maybe it’s just how you know to be there for her, and her big brain, and her warm heart. ‘love you.’

she squints into the sun breaking from behind a cloud. ‘i love you too,’ she says, and then jogs away to start practice again. her hands settle.

/

you get up every morning in tokyo with her when she wakes at sunrise to do a quick flow and meditate, even though you think it’s an ungodly early hour and you have to drink more coffee than is probably healthy.

to everyone else she seems calm, reliably happy, as gentle and smart and quietly funny as always.

but you have loved her so deeply for so long you know that when no one is paying attention her shoulders tense up to her ears, and she tosses and turns in the middle of the night, and she picks at her cuticles during tactical meetings, even though she’s intently watching film, smiling at you briefly when you pat her hand to get her to stop. you know what it looks like when christen is trying to stave off anxiety attacks that are so powerful she can’t breathe sometimes; you know she’s talked about the potential triggers of the olympics in therapy for a long time; but she’s just a person with a wonky brain sometimes, no matter how much healing she’s done, no matter how strong she is.

she plays so well, though, like you knew she would: ruthless and fast and brilliant, on and off the ball. after the particularly exhausting semi-final, once you get back to your room, you get her to lie down with you in bed, even though she feebly protests because it’s not what she had planned for her evening.

you work your hand underneath her t-shirt and trace along her vertebrae, feel them sharply against her skin. she has freckles blooming across her nose from the sun, her skin shades darker than it had been in the damp winter.

‘you’re incredible,’ you say.

she sighs, smiles a little into your shoulder, presses her cheek against your chest.

‘rest, my love,’ you say, and kiss the top of her head.

/

you start to look for houses right away when you move to los angeles, because you want to start a life with her here, in where you’d always planned would be your eventual home. christen seems more than happy in the rental your relator had found, even though it’s two blocks from the water and only has three bedrooms. you think she’s so happy to be home — and back able to go to her favorite yoga studio, and her favorite restaurants, and see her dad and her sister — that she doesn’t want to bother with the process, mostly.

but you had spent years not having a home. you had spent years not _wanting_ a home, not until you went to sleep with her next to you in hotel beds and ached for it so deeply in your bones you had wondered if she had taken up residence there.

at first you had been worried you would be terrible to live with, because you’re awful at not fidgeting, and you can’t watch an entire movie in one go without something to keep you otherwise occupied in your hands. you’re not a good cook and you’re perpetually and unfailingly messy, even though you don’t want to be. you forget to put your sneakers away and you have a hard time reading books by themselves without an audiobook too; you get paint everywhere and you had barely learned what it was like to be in your own skin when you fell in love with her.

but you had learned that she wasn’t perfect, that she needed help with things too, like unloading the dishwasher and doing the laundry, like laughing when the day had been too long. you’re good at those things, the small things, and you think you’re getting good at the big things too.

you’ve been drawing up plans for a house for days, now, and she’s mostly left you alone in your studio because you’re both retiring soon and she thinks you need your time alone to deal with it. maybe that’s true — you go on walks on the beach a lot to pray — but you’ve made your peace with it, more than you’d thought you would have. your entire body is sore all the time, and football will always be in your life, but you want a family — carpool and teaching them to swim and toys overflowing from the toy bin; tiny jordans that christen rolls her eyes at but secretly thinks are fire; all the laughter you could dream of.

you walk by a house, one day, along the strand, a few streets from the boardwalk, that has a brand new for sale sign. it’s a rare older home, a little run down compared to the beautiful, shiny properties around it. you pause, swallow, think that you should definitely ask christen before you do anything — but then you’re texting your relator, and you’re texting your friend from college who’s a contractor, and before you know it, a few days later, you’re putting a downpayment on a house.

it’s definitely batshit crazy, and your therapist is convinced you’re having a midlife crisis, and maybe you are. but you plan two stories of balconies, a patio that overlooks the water. you have make space for five bedrooms and an office and a yoga room for christen — facing east, for the sunrise; a small gym in the basement. you think about all of the finishings carefully; how she prefers dark hardwood and white granite; the vintage claw foot bathtub you get imported.

you arrange for one of the smaller bedrooms, just down the hall from the master, to be painted a soft green.

you tell pinoe about it eventually, when she’s visiting and you get lunch together, which is risky because she’s chaotic and also christen’s best friend, and she definitely looks at you like you’re insane but also like you’re _really_ going to make christen mad. both of which are probably true. you haven’t told christen yet because you wanted to show her when things were really underway, not just some scribbled plan in your office. pinoe pats you on the back and tells you to get your shit together.

it’s not particularly astute advice but you _do_ have to tell christen, you know that. one morning you decide that it’s time; it’s been long enough.

when you stop in front of the house you feel like you’re going to burst out of your skin you’re so nervous. she’s very, very still for a few moments and you think, horrifyingly, that you’ve really fucked up and so you ramble, but then her hands are on your hips and by some incredible miracle she doesn’t actually look mad.

‘want to show me around?’ she says, giving you the most astounding grace — again, always.

you take her hand and lead her through the house, which is admittedly _beautiful_ , even under construction. she sighs when she sees the bathroom you have planned, lets out a soft _tobin_ when she sees the closet.

a few months later you’re able to move in, just as you’re set to retire. after you get all your boxes unpacked you have to go away for a friendly, one of your last games. you’re barely able to spend any real time in the house before you leave; you arrange for your bedroom to be filled with flowers for when you return.

christen’s eyes fill with tears when she opens the door to deposit her suitcase. hydrangeas, dahlias, sunflowers: gratitude, commitment, happiness.

she turns to you, cups your jaw. you turn your cheek to kiss her palm.

/

the puppy you adopt is… _chaotic_. he has so much energy and he listens when he thinks a command is fun but not otherwise. he bounds all over your perfect house and chews on the corners of the drywall when you’re not paying attention; a few times, when you don’t play with him right away when he flings a toy in your direction, you’re pretty sure he pees on your rug out of spite.

but you love him, a lot. he’s smart and weird and is always making christen laugh. at first he’s scared of the soccer balls in your yard but once he sees you and christen passing he wants to play too.

‘he’s finally living up to his name,’ christen says with a grin, flicking the ball over his eager little body, even as he tries to jump. you laugh and trap it, do a little trick but he’s fast so to avoid stepping on him you trip over the ball and fall down.

christen is delighted and ronny licks your face, hops all over your chest with dirty little paws.

‘not a _word_ ,’ you say. she helps you up seriously but then there’s dirt on your butt and she starts laughing all over again.

/

it’s weird but you definitely know when she would get her period, mostly because she shared her schedule tracker with you so you could plan to try insemination when she was ovulating.

you know that she’s four days late, now, but neither of you have said anything because it seems too good to be true, something you’ve wanted so badly for so long.

it’s another two days until you come home from a walk with ronny to find a little present on the counter; christen nowhere to be seen.

it says your name on the box, though, and your heart is pounding in your chest because what else could it possibly mean? you’re not sure if you’re supposed to open it or not but you’ve never been the most patient person in the world and ronny scrambles to jump up and put his front paws on the counter so he can see too.

you don’t even care like you should when you open the box, because there’s a tiny pair of off whites — which makes you start to laugh — along with three positive pregnancy tests — which make you start to cry.

‘christen!’ you shout, and you hope this was supposed to be a surprise for you to open by yourself because otherwise you fucked it up but you’re so elated you can’t bring yourself to care.

she walks down the stairs from her office and her smile knocks you off your feet — literally; you slide down to the floor and ronny licks at your tears and she sits down next to you. you put your hands against her stomach and bend down to kiss it.

‘hey, little dude,’ you say, even though she tries to tell you that it’s still a zygote. ‘i’m your mama.’

when you sit back up she’s staring at you with tears in her eyes, and she leans forward to kiss you. it’s better than all the trophies you’ve won; all the medals and accolades and goals.

‘thank you,’ you whisper, to christen or god — one in the same, sometimes, you think — and kiss her again.

/

‘you’re young, and extremely healthy otherwise,’ your surgeon tells you, although you ache to tell her that you feel so old sometimes, and it was worth it, you think, because you _love_ football, and you’d gotten to see the world and compete to your heart’s content; you’d met your best friends and the love of your life.

but you’re hurt, more than advil and stretching and your chiropractor could fix. you hate it, _hate_ needing to ask for help, hate not being able to do things on your own. but christen sits next to you calmly, takes notes on her ipad of everything the surgeon says because she knows you don’t process things well if it’s only auditory, especially if you’re nervous. she patiently explains everything to you again later, and you walk through all the options with her.

she’s cut her hair to fall just below her shoulders, lets her curls be wild most days; there are a few more lines around her eyes — from laughing, you think, more than anything; she’s barely beginning to show. she’s different, you realize, all of a sudden, than when you were 28, or 30, or 32. you’re different too — calmer, smarter. more patient, more giving.

‘let’s do the surgery, then,’ you say, try to feel confident, try not to cry, because it’s clearly the option that both christen and your doctors think will offer the best quality of life longterm, even if it’s going to be a shitty six months.

she nods, puts her ipad away and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, leans forward to press her forehead to yours. ‘okay.’

/

you’re getting ready to go to brunch with her sister when you catch christen frowning at herself in the mirror. she has on underwear and a bra and she had been putting lotion on, like normal, but she sighs slightly when she reaches the skin of her belly. she has stretch marks, now, and you know she’s deeply invested in body liberation and she pretends, as much as she can, that nothing bothers her about the changes in her body.

but she’s been sleeping more lately; yesterday she had trouble getting out of bed at all. you always worry because you love her, and sometimes you have no idea what to do to help.

but today you walk up behind her and brush her hair aside, kiss up the side of her neck.

’tobes,’ she says, softly, pushing on your arm a little, ‘we’re going to be late.’

it has no real bite to it, is mostly tired. you just hum.

she eventually sinks into you, and you put your hands around her body to rest on her belly. ‘bad few days?’

she waits a moment before she nods, then you hear her sniffle a little before she turns around and buries her face in your neck. she’s been there, so steadfastly, for so many physical therapy appointments, hours of pain you don’t even know how to put into words.

‘i’m sorry,’ you say, wrap your arms tight around her, to hold her in. she nods against your chest. ‘you’re so beautiful,’ you say, and wait for her to lift her eyes. eventually she does, and you wipe her tears with your thumbs, hold her face — cheeks fuller than a few months ago, eyes just as kind — and just look. ‘so beautiful.’

you wait for the little smile to show up, as it always, eventually does. you feel the baby kick against your hands and then hear her stomach grumble. you wait for her to laugh first and then you do too.

‘brunch, then?’

she nods, slips her dress over her head. ‘sounds perfect.’

/

christen (9:32 am): _ronny rolled in goose poop at the park_  
christen (9:33 am): _can you get a bath ready for him? he smells so bad_

tobin (9:37 am): _lol yah i got it_

/

when she’s eight months pregnant your back is healed enough for you to build a crib. you work painstakingly, in the workshop you’d set up in your garage. you’d wanted to keep it a secret from her but you bought a table saw so, like, there’s no real way to do that.

she checks on your progress every few days but there’s a window when you’ve finished and she’s out at a meeting. she’s been in charge of decorating the nursery like she wants to, but you get lauren to come over and help you move the crib up to the room; you put it against the wall, by the huge window, drenched in sun.

‘it’s beautiful, tobin,’ she says, squeezing your shoulder. ‘really.’

you’ve looked to her example for so, so long — on how to be a good wife, a good mom; the _best_ friend. ‘what if i —‘ it’s something that’s sat at the bottom of your stomach like lead for months, now, maybe years. ‘what if i can’t protect them?’

you know she knows what you mean: christen is Black, and your sperm donor was a Black man too, something she’d wanted and you had been happy about just the same. you want, more than anything, to raise a child in the world that feels seen, and heard, and _loved_. but the world isn’t just inside your home, and you haven’t even met the baby yet but you’re absolutely terrified.

lauren sits down on a stool and pats the beautiful rocking chair for you to sit too.

‘you won’t be able to,’ she says, then points out, ‘you’re not always able to protect christen.’

she’s right. you set your jaw. ‘but i _want_ to.’

‘yeah,’ she says, ‘you know when to speak up and when to listen. you’ll know the same with your kids. which is why christen fell in love with you. it’s also why you’ll be a great mom.’

you think about the protests you’ve gone to, the non profits you’ve worked with, all the books you’ve read and podcasts you’ve listened to. how you feel angry and helpless and, above all, determined.

‘they’ll be okay, tobes,’ she says, reaches to squeeze your hand. ‘they’ll be so beautiful.’

/

being there while christen gives birth is the most astounding thing you have ever witnessed in your entire life. you’d set up the pool in your open living area off the kitchen when she’d gone into labor, and your doula had come over to help. christen is calm and measured and so beautiful, straining during her contractions and resting in between. she’s quiet and reserved, but she squeezes your hand _hard_ and tears leak from her eyes as she starts to push.

but then: your son is crying. he’s _screaming_ , in fact, when your doula puts him against her chest. you start to cry harder than you have in your entire life and you think you might pass out because you’re so startlingly _happy_. he’s perfect. he’s so perfect.

you get to hold him a few minutes later, and when his weight settles in your arms, when he stops crying when christen laughs at some stupid thing you say, is the greatest gift you’ve ever received.

/

her body takes its time to heal, and it seems that she’s easily enough persuaded to be gentle and rest and let you do things to help out. you’re exhausted, like, all the time, but your son is a few months old when one day he opens his eyes and they’re the same color as christen’s: pale and green like sea glass, endless.

‘oh,’ you say, aloud, an intake of breath and a prayer, and he smiles up at you, tries to grab onto your hair. you smooth your hand over his curls and hold him a little closer.

**Author's Note:**

> hmu if u want, i tried to fit some prompts in here - possibilistfanfiction on tumblr


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